


and I would walk five hundred more

by Meridas



Series: you are my sunshine [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Genderfluid Mollymauk Tealeaf, Molly's Post-Rez Adventure, Nightmares, Other, Resurrection, Temporary Character Death, but also cute shopping interlude with bird child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 18:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17452178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridas/pseuds/Meridas
Summary: Molly scoops up the Moon card and turns it over in his fingers. “Hello there,” he says. He tucks it into his pocket and faces south. “I suppose we’d better get going.”





	and I would walk five hundred more

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeyyyyy guess who's back with more soulmate au?? After some comments wondering what Molly was up to in Chapter 2 of '[my only sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046896/chapters/40080542)' and some encouragement on the widomauk discord, I decided that a little series of timestamps is in order! 
> 
> This one happens in the same rough timeframe as Chapter 2 of the main fic, so you might want to read that one first! Thank you thank you to steelneena for beta'ing this for me!

There’s a scent like caramel apples in the air.

There’s hardly any sound around him, just faint stirrings of an early morning, birdsong in the trees. A few more minutes can’t hurt. Molly rolls over, his eyes still closed.

He gets a faceful of cold, wet powder.

“Ack!” he pushes himself upright, shaking his head. “What the—”

He’s surrounded by snow. There’s cloth beneath him—familiar cloth. His. That—his tapestry of the Platinum Dragon. Why—

His chest aches.

He puts his hand up, pats at himself. He doesn’t feel any injuries, nothing that seems like broken bones or open cuts. He feels hazy, maybe hungover. Did he go on a bender? Did he sleep outside?

Something in his shirt crinkles. His fingers fumble with it, clumsy and weak, as he pulls it out and unfolds a sheet of very fine paper.

There’s—it’s certainly writing. There’s writing on it, letter spelling out words that he _knows_ , damnit. He knows he can read, he isn’t the best and he doesn’t retain much information but he _can_. Gustav taught him. He couldn’t, at first, when he’d come up out of the ground the first time he remembers feeling like this, looking at a page full of squiggles and not _knowing_ —

He looks at the page. Looks back at the tapestry. The ground. The stake and his coat hung up like a—like—

He can’t breathe.

He can _see_ he’s breathing, see it steaming in the air in front of his face, but his chest feels tight and he’s getting dizzy. He drops the piece of paper and clamps both hands over his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Deep breath, shuddering in through his nose. Out again, _try to breathe out for longer, Mollymauk,_ in for five, out for seven, _it’s going to be alright, Molly_ —

“Mollymauk,” he gasps out loud. “Mollymauk Tealeaf—” and he scrambles for the paper, sees the letters arrange themselves into his name at the top of the sheet, and goes weak with relief.

There are two messages on the parchment. The main passage is written delicately, with even strokes and ink that is still deep black and pure. Molly looks over at the tapestry. The edges of it are torn and muddied, fraying with wet and time. The paper in his hand seems untouched by either.

By the time he finishes reading it, Molly’s entire body is shaking. It—that really happened, then. He died. He’d _died_ , and here he is again. He remembers… he remembers throwing a desperate attempt to blind that fucker who took his family, he remembers the world going dark around him, remembers spitting blood into his face. He thinks he remembers hearing his name screamed out, but he isn’t as sure about that one. It could have been the wind.

He remembers a brief flash of pain. Then, nothing.

Caleb’s name stands out near the middle of the page. Only a few lines, really. Molly wonders, bile rising in his throat, if the others are even still alive. If they saved Yasha and Jester and Fjord. If Beau got away, if his stupid sacrifice meant anything at all. Caleb was clearly alive to write him this note but—

Gods, _Caleb._ Molly made a bad fucking play, and Caleb watched his soulmate die for it. He isn’t under any illusions that he was the most important person to Caleb, not by a long shot. There’s never been anything that _makes_ him care. But Caleb has been half of his heart since they’d met. There’s a bond between them, and he has _no idea_ what happens to someone who loses that. No one ever warned him what might happen to Caleb if he bit it.

Molly presses one hand to his chest. His heartbeat is strong, considering… well, considering circumstances. It feels odd, though, like it isn’t steady. Every few breaths, he feels a skip or falter, like it can’t find a beat to stick to. There’s a rhythm one moment, then the next it speeds up like he’s sprinting, then eases back to normal. It makes him uneasy. 

The second note, scrawled messily across the bottom of the paper in shimmering green ink, says simply: _Go on, then._

“The fuck is that supposed to mean,” he mutters. He reads over the note again, slowly, making sure he hasn’t missed or misunderstood anything. Then he folds it up, carefully running his fingers along the existing creases, and tucks it back into his shirt.

He pushes himself to his feet. He’s a little wobbly, and he goes lightheaded for a second there. But he steadies himself, and takes a deep breath. He takes his coat off the stake it’s hooked on. He wonders idly how long it’s been there. He’s not sure what season it is, this far north—still fairly chilly, even with sunshine breaking through the clouds. Either the coat’s held up remarkably well, or it hasn’t been very long at all.

He swings it over his shoulders, and something flutters to the ground. A familiar card lands on his foot, face-up like a sign.

Molly scoops up the Moon card and turns it over in his fingers. “Hello there,” he says. He tucks it into his pocket and faces south. “I suppose we’d better get going.”

* * *

The smokestacks of Hupperdook are a blessedly welcome sight. He doesn’t have a cent to his name right now, but he has blisters on his feet and bruises on his back. He has an ungodly amount of mud and road grime on his skin, his scalp itches, his clothes are filthy, and he desperately wants to sleep in a goddamn bed.

He stumbles into town in the afternoon lull. Hardly anyone is in the streets at the moment, let alone a helpful young gnome looking to make a quick buck pointing him in the right direction. Just as well, penniless as he is.  He wonders if anyone would take his carnival jewelry in trade.

He has two options, as far as he can tell. He… isn’t a hundred percent sure where Rissa and her father live. He wasn’t paying all that much attention when Rissa led them around. There was so much going on, new things around every corner, and he’d been with friends. No need to remember every street names when Caleb was around.

He rubs at his sternum. He doesn’t like that his chest still aches, or that his heartbeat doesn’t seem to have stabilized. It wasn’t like this before he met Caleb—he doesn’t want to imagine how bad it must be for his soulmate. He just wants to get back to Zadash and see him again. He just wants his family back.

He stands in the middle of a crossroads for a long moment, blinking at a street sign. The name means nothing to him. As soon as he looks away to get his bearings he's already forgotten the names of these two streets. He looks back again, and the letters seem to swim before his blurry, exhausted eyes. He closes them for a moment, just stands there and breathes deeply and tries to gather himself, when—

" _Mister Mollymauk?_ "

He spins toward the sound of Caleb's voice, breath catching in his throat. He stumbles, catches himself against a wall, and when he blinks away the dizziness he meets two beady black eyes instead of deep blue ones.

"Oh," he says. He blinks at her. Kiri chirs, tilts her head curiously at him. "Hello, again, I suppose."

"Kiri!" Another child's voice calls out. As Molly and the bird child stand there looking at each other, a pair of gnomish children come around the corner. Their eyes widen when they see Mollymauk.

Kiri chirps excitedly. "The Mighty Nein!" she crows, and rustles her feathers vigorously.

"Er," Molly stumbles. "Um, no, it's just me this time. Have you seen the others, lately?"

She coos sadly. "Long time," she says, and Jester's voice makes Molly ache with longing.

"Right." Molly sighs. "Okay, then." He pats her head carefully. "Good to see you again, kiddo."

Before he pulls away, her feathery hands grab hold of his wrist. "Be home before dark!" she says in an unfamiliar voice—must be her new mother, phrase like that—and pulls at his arm.

"Oh no," Molly blurts out. He shakes his head. "Kiri, I'm not staying, I just—" he stumbles a little as she tugs on him. "Hey, I can't go home with you."

She eyes him as critically as a bird-child can. It's surprisingly judgmental. "I don't know if it's smart," she sing-songs in Jester's lilting voice. It's cheating, really, using voices he so desperately wants to hear.

"Um..." the older gnome child waves at him. He finally notices they're each wearing little backpacks—must be on their way home from school. "You can come home with us, Mister Mollymauk. Mum and Dad would be happy to see any of the Mighty Nein again.”

“Momma and dad!” Kiri agrees. She tugs again at Molly’s wrist.

He looks back at the street signs. They might as well be written in Draconic for all the damn good they do him.

“All right,” he relents. “Go on, then.”

* * *

It turns out to be a good thing he gave in to the kids, because Molly doesn’t recognize a damn thing in this town. They bring him back to the Shusters’ home, kicking stones and skipping over cracks in the street the whole way. He’d almost forgotten that he likes kids, in their own right. He misses Toya, sometimes. He hopes their paths cross someday.

He hopes she hasn’t crossed the Mighty Nein’s path without him already. 

“Mum!” the little girl shouts as she shoves open the door. “We’re home! And one of the Mighty Nein is here visiting!”

Gilda Shuster, bless her heart, doesn’t do more than raise an eyebrow at the sight of her children with a thoroughly bedraggled tiefling in tow. “Well,” she says. “Jude! Go set an extra place at the table!”

“I’m very sorry to intrude like this,” Molly says.

She shakes her head immediately. “You and your friends are welcome any time,” she says firmly. She raises an eyebrow and looks him pointedly up and down. “And it looks like you’re in need of a little helping hand, there. 

Molly grins sheepishly at her. "Hit a bit of a rough patch, what can I say."

"Wallace isn't home from work yet, and it'll be hours yet til dinnertime," Gilda tells him. "So you go and get yourself cleaned up."  
  
Standing in a small gnomish bathroom, Molly really takes stock of his appearance for the first time.  
  
He's... well, he's a mess.  
  
Even cleaned up as he is now, freshly scrubbed and smelling like cheap soap instead of mud, he's quite a sight. He's lost weight on the road, having to forage and scavenge what he can for the past week or so. He has dark circles under his eyes and his lips are almost unbearably chapped.  
  
He runs a hand through his hair, now finally free of tangles and dirt. "Well," he says to the mirror, "I suppose I've looked worse."  
  
He still doesn't know how long he was in the ground—he probably could have figured it out, but a large part of him desperately doesn't want to know that. His clothes seem to be in remarkably good condition, at least compared to how decayed his poor tapestry looked. Even so, his shirt is deeply torn and bloodstained beyond redemption. The leather armor he wears underneath also has a gaping hole in it, so it's probably not going to do its job very well if he runs into trouble on the way to Zadash.  
  
He doesn't like looking at the scar beneath that tear. It's not like his other ones, neat and silvery with age, mysterious and rakish. He wishes he didn't know the story behind this one. He wishes he had the gold to cover it up with something pretty.  
  
He takes a deep breath and laces up his shirt as best he can, ignoring the shaking in his fingers. No need to traumatize the kids out there.  
  
He reaches up and toys with one of his earrings, thinking. He doesn't have any money to his name, and like hell is he asking this family for anything else. He can't pawn the swords, he'll surely need them at some point on the road, but he needs to pick up some essentials if he's ever going to make it back to Zadash. He doesn't have much time, either—he itches to be back in Zadash already, to find his family and make sure they're alright...  
  
Well, there's one little scamp around who seems to know her way about this town.  
  
He throws his coat over his shoulders and goes to find Kiri. A quick tap of her shoulder snags her away from playing with the other children. "Hey," he says, "I have an idea, and I think you're the only one who can help me out with this."  
  
Her feathers fluff up excitedly. "Get into trouble?"  
  
Molly grins. "Now you've got it."

* * *

 Jester would be proud of how quickly Kiri takes him to a candy shop. She has a tiny bit of pocket money, and she tells him "this means we are friends," in Caleb's voice as she offers him a small lollipop. He swallows hard and gives her a big smile, manages to thank her sincerely through his tight throat. She skips ahead, and he takes a second to turn his face up to the sky and blink rapidly.

Gods, he misses his friends.

He manages to find a pawn shop, with Kiri's distracted but enthusiastic help. She squawks indignantly when he hands over all of his rings in exchange for a handful of silver and copper. He raises one eyebrow at her.

"Alright, calm down, now comes the fun part."

"Ok ok ok," Kiri relents.

It's a bit of a challenge finding second hand things for folks a bit taller than gnomes, but with some dedication he manages to put together quite the fashion show for his young companion. She makes quite the racket, mostly in Jester's voice. Molly can hardly believe how much of the Mighty Nein's awful vocabulary she gleefully throws back at him, from “I don't know if it's smart,” to Nott's terrible noisemaker impression, with the occasional firm “ _nein_ ,” thrown in when she clearly doesn't approve of his fashion choices. 

Of course that only encourages him to find things that are even worse.

All too soon, he hears the loud horn that sounds the end of Hupperdook's work day. He drops a bright pink bandana down on top of Kiri's head and saunters away to pay for his meager but colorful findings. 

He hustles her home, and they arrive in time to be told to wash up for dinner and come to the table, and Molly is delighted to change into new clothes at last. He pulls on a shirt that must have been made for a particularly broad-shouldered gnome, because it slouches across his shoulders but only falls to his midriff. It’s sky-blue, almost matching some of the shades of his pants, and very soft from years of washing. It feels wonderful to wear something that’s not stiff and stained with his own blood.

He runs his hands through his hair, takes a deep breath, and goes to join the family for dinner.

It’s almost familiar, in a way. All of Molly’s families to date—all two of them—have included fewer children and a lot more cursing, but the kind of friendly chaos that their family has feels nice. It’s— _gods_ it does feel amazing to sit and hear other voices after days by himself, and as Molly reaches for a cup of water he notices his hand shaking. He stuffs a potato in his mouth and tells himself to ignore it.

When Gilda begins clearing everyone’s plates, Molly stands up and helps her carry them to the kitchen. Both adults immediately protest and try to shoo him back to his seat.

“Let me at least do my share of the work,” Molly argues. “I can’t pay you for this, I can at least help.”

Wallace looks like he might protest again, but Gilda only hesitates a moment before she tosses a towel into Molly’s hands and waves him over to the sink. “You can come dry for me,” she says, and that’s the end of that. 

After everything is cleaned and put away, Molly grabs his coat and joins the family in the sitting room. His friends had left most of his possessions alone, bless their sentimental hearts, and he finds his little sewing kit in the same pocket he’s always kept it in. The coat doesn’t look half-bad, actually, but it needs some love and attention all the same. Gilda settles down with a knitting project and gives him a smile, and Wallace pulls out a pair of glasses and waits for the children to gather around him before he begins reading a story to the room.

At one point, Kiri comes over and sits near his feet. She makes a noise, a little rumbling purr that he thinks she might have picked up from Frumpkin. She keeps scooting closer to him, inches at a time, until she’s pressed up against his legs. Molly looks down at her to find her black eyes twinkling hopefully up at him.

Molly sets aside his coat and picks her up, letting her settle in his lap. She makes that Frumpkin noise again, her feathers ruffling up happily.

He sighs quietly. He can’t stay here, no matter how happy she is to have one of her weird friends back. It's not practical to wait until the Mighty Nein shows up to visit her again. He has to get back to his own family. He needs to see Yasha again, and apologize for leaving her for so long, and make sure she isn’t carrying the burden of his death on her shoulder. He needs to make sure that she and Jester and Fjord all made it out all right. He’d really like to be able to rub it in Beau’s face that he’s one up on her and there’s nothing she can do about it. He needs to hold Caleb and make sure their heartbeats still match and hear that he hasn’t fucked everything beyond repair by dying for a little bit. 

So as lovely as it is here, he knows he won’t be here in the morning.

When the story ends for the night and all the children rush off to get ready for bed, Molly holds Kiri back for a moment.

“I can’t stay,” he tells her gently. “I’ve gotta get back—I’ve got people to see, you know. Got to see what those weirdos got up to without me.”

Her little feathered hands pat at his cheeks. “Take care of them,” she says, his own voice echoed eerily back to him.

He gives her a little nod. “Yeah,” he admits. He ruffles the soft feathers at the top of her head. “You get it, don’t you. Somebody’s got to take care of that bunch.”

“Get into trouble!” she chirps, and Molly laughs.

Yeah, she definitely gets it.

* * *

 Lips press against his, chapped and delicate in their touch. He breathes in, kisses back soft and languid. He doesn't feel rushed. He knows this. The smell of books and herbs, the faint brush of stubble against his cheeks.

“Caleb,” he sighs.

He wants to look at him, but can't seem to open his eyes, like his eyelids are heavy. Oh, well. As long as Caleb keeps kissing him, he supposes it doesn't really matter.

Fingers brush along the base of his horns, sweeping back through his hair. He floats, let's himself be guided by sensation and Caleb's touch.

“ _Mein schatz,"_ he hears, feels vibrate against his lips. “My Molly… come back to me, Mollymauk…”

“I'm here,” he protests, and his eyes will finally open—

He's alone.

He stands at the edge of a flower patch. Marigolds and larkspur spill towards him, heedless of the snow around them. A snap of vibrant cloth presides over them, over a mound of earth dug roughly from the ground and smoothed over with careful, shaking hands.

“ _Don't touch him!_ ” he hears, whipped away on the icy wind, and he whirls around, his heart pounding.

“Caleb!” he shouts into the encroaching dark. “ _Caleb!_ ”

His heart lurches, pain lancing through his chest. He cries out, stumbles, and the wind whips the breath from his lips and he can't breathe, tastes iron and dirt and cloying, choking flower petals—

Molly jolts awake.

His chest is tight and he panics, sits bolt upright and gasps for breath. It comes easily, cold but clear. His heart skips a beat, staggers, but continues to beat.

Molly curls up, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his head on his knees. He takes another deep breath, shivering. There hadn't been any flowers on his grave—why would there be, with winter coming in fast when he… when he died?

He fumbles for the pocket of his coat, hung over the back of a chair and never far from him. He finds the reassuring crinkle of fine paper, the familiar set of tiny notches in the edge of his card. The Moon. He knows it better than his own heartbeat, now.

He can't think about that. He can't wonder if it means something terrible has happened to Caleb while Molly, stupid and reckless, was in the ground. If he's been hurt while Molly was far away unable to help him. If his mistake has ripped him and Caleb apart for good, if it's something irreparable that he fractured when he died—

Molly shoves himself out of bed. He can't think about it. He has to get to Zadash and find out for himself.

There’s barely enough light to see the road, but that’s good enough for him. He leaves behind a single charm, a copper sunburst set with tiny winking garnets, and is gone before the Shusters wake for the morning.

* * *

 Molly knows he’s pushing himself too hard. Logically, he knows that a simple walk shouldn’t have him short of breath, with muscles burning and legs shaking at the end of the day. He’s traveled before, he knows how to pace himself to last the long haul. But he can’t help himself this time, pushing harder and harder until he realizes he’s been walking as quickly as he physically can without breaking into a run.

He stops himself, standing at the side of the road as the sun sinks slowly behind the horizon. He leans against a tree and closes his eyes for a moment, panting. This is unsustainable and he knows it. He’s going to run himself into the ground long before he reaches Zadash at this point. 

Molly presses his hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow back to a normal pace. He knows, on one level, that he has to slow down before he kills himself. But he wants to be back in Zadash, he _wants_ to be back with his friends right this very second. His breath hitches. Gods, he misses all of them. He wants to be with a family again. He doesn’t want to be alone.

Something rustles in the bushes across the road. Molly opens his eyes, his hand falling to the hilt of one sword.

A bolt shoots out of the bushes and slams into the branch by Molly’s shoulder. He yelps and stumbles backwards, then rips his swords free and whirls toward the source. “ _Hey, motherfucker!_ ” he spits, Infernal blistering the air. Someone in the underbrush gives a pained yelp, and two more crossbow bolts shoot towards him. He dances back, swatting one of them away with a scimitar.  

His heart hammers in his chest. He’s clearly outnumbered, and if he lights up his swords he might not be able to talk his way out of his. He doesn’t have much, but it’s not worth his life, his chance of getting back to Yasha, to Caleb—

“Shit!” A voice yelps from the treeline. A tall holly bush shakes violently, and then a thin redhead shoves his way out of it, swearing at the prickly leaves. Instinctively, Molly brings one sword up to the back of his neck, ready to fight.

Then he stops. He stares.

He starts to laugh.

“Oh for the love of _fuck_.” Molly puts his fists on his hips. “What the fuck have I told you about your skills as bandits?”

The kid gestures behind him, and the bandits all come free of the bushes with various amounts of grumbling and shamefaced scuffling. There are only four of these fuckers, now. Molly wonders if the bandit they’d left pantsless and covered in flowers is having a better time right now.

“We’re very sorry,” the hapless bandit leader says sheepishly. The rest of them scuffle their feet in the dirt, looking like school kids being told off. Molly takes a moment to marvel at the mysteries of the universe.

He sheaths his swords. “Do you happen to have a cart, this time around? You, remind me, what’s your name?”

The redhead puts away his crossbow and scratches the back of his neck. “Um… Zenny. And we’ve got a cart, yeah, it’s—well, it wasn’t ours…”

Molly shakes his head with a theatrical sigh. This is perfect. This is exactly what he needs. He tamps down on the grin that wants to spread across his face. “Well, nothing to do about that now, I suppose. Come on, let’s get your cart, we’re heading south. And along the way I’m going to teach you all a few important lessons about this lifestyle you insist on.”

Two of the bandits look utterly bewildered. One of them immediately heads off into the brush. Molly and Zenny stand there looking at each other, until the bandit returns leading a cart and two mangy-looking horses.

Molly gestures grandly for Zenny to take the reins. No use completely undermining the lad’s confidence, after all. Molly isn’t going to stay and lead these idiots forever.

He leaps up into the front of the cart and settles in beside Zenny, kicking his feet up. “Alright, let's go over the people we're allowed to steal from,” he declares, ticking off his fingers. “One, slavers…”

* * *

 The miles go by much quicker, between the cart and the sheer entertainment of the terrible awful bandits. Zenny is a good kid, honestly, and although he isn’t all that bright it’s not like Molly has ever claimed to be a scholar. Still, he can try to hammer some good sense into these people and maybe get a moral or two to stick before he reaches the outskirts of the city.

He’s worried, though he tries not to dwell on it. He’d—if he’s being honest with himself, which he tries never to do, he’d hoped to possibly run into the Mighty Nein on the road. Maybe they would cross paths and he could surprise them. And he could see them sooner. Or maybe he’d run into Yasha, out on one of her mysterious journeys, and even if she was busy maybe they could spend a night by the fire together and Molly could _talk_ to her, and maybe get a hug from her, or maybe—

It’s a fruitless train of thought. The days pass, miles roll by, and he doesn’t pass a single familiar face on the road, and his dreams aren’t that great either.

He dreams about Yasha, about her skeletal wings and her burning rage and tears on her face. During the waking day he picks flowers for her to keep, sometimes, and in his dreams he chases after her, her book of flowers and memories clutched in his hands as he tries again and again to catch up to her. His voice is always lost in the thunder and wind and he always wakes up shaking and frantic to get moving.

He dreams about Beau, facing down that monster who killed him with fury in her fists. He screams at her to run, to leave him, and he always jolts awake before he can see if she lived. He dreams about Jester and Fjord, trapped and calling his name from somewhere he can never find. He dreams of standing with Nott’s hand in his, waiting for something, but when he looks down she’s always gone and he’s all alone.

The nights where his heart can’t keep a steady beat are the worst, when he dreams about Caleb. Sometimes the dreams are soft, just a feeling of Caleb’s bandaged hands pressing gently against his chest or talented fingers running through his hair. Others are terrible, reaching out for his soulmate while he feels like he’s drowning, like he can’t breathe and he can’t run, like he’s swimming through molasses and Caleb _needs_ him but he’ll never, ever get there in time. Those are nights he wakes himself up, clutching his chest, with cold sweat on his skin and tears running down his face.  

None of his traveling companions comment on his sleeping habits. There are only a handful of them, always happy to hand over a shift on watch and go back to their bedroll.

Molly spends his days cheerfully critiquing everything Zenny and his crew have done in their lives. He spends most of his nights with his arms wrapped around himself, staring up at the moon.

* * *

 Finally, _finally_ , the gates of Zadash are ahead of them. Molly stands at the front of the cart, his tail swishing eagerly behind him.

He barely waits for the cart to slow down before he hops down, still a good half-hour outside the city. He slaps the side of the cart jovially. “Well, good luck, you lot!” he says. “Can’t say I hope we’ll meet again, but keep your noses clean, only steal from grumpy people, may the road rise up to meet you, all that!”

He whirls away in a fashion that he knows makes his coat flare dramatically out behind him, and starts whistling as he walks toward Zadash. Behind him, he hears one of them say “is he real?” in a tone of complete bafflement, and he grins.

Zadash hasn’t changed all that much since he left. There’s an undercurrent to it, more urgent and less upbeat, but he supposes that’s only fair for any city that’s aware of a war. Molly is back to having not a cent to his name, but he does have clean-ish clothes and his wits about him. The Mighty Nein may still have connections here, but he doesn’t want to call in any favors first thing.

He certainly doesn't want to encounter Cree without any backup, so he steers clear of the Evening Nip altogether. The note Caleb left him mentions the Gentleman, but Molly is perfectly aware of who he is and what kind of trouble that bunch could get him into all on his lonesome. No, thank you.

Claudia has left the Leaky Tap, and the new owner seems nice enough when Molly chats with her, but she doesn’t know him or anything he’s done here. It might be just as well, really. He leaves with nothing more than a wink and some conversation.

He heads instead to the Lodge of the Eclipse. He vaguely remembers wanting to visit this inn to see a show, and it hasn't been all that long for him since he made his living selling shows. It's as good a bet as any. 

The owner of the Lodge doesn’t throw him out immediately, which is a good sign. She hears him out when he asks about honest work, regarding him shrewdly. “You got a head for numbers? Any cooking skills?” she asks.

“Not a one,” Molly says cheerfully. “But what I do know is how to put on a good show.”

She looks him slowly up and down. He grins at her.

Molly starts that weekend.

* * *

 The Lodge of the Eclipse is the kind of whirlwind that reminds him of the carnival, except he has to stay in one place for it. That rankles, a bit, but he’s _waiting_ , he’s being good and not striking out across a war-torn Empire all on his own to try to track down some idiots. Not yet, anyway.

He keeps busy. He even makes friends, work-friends at least. He’s always liked performers, and they’re good folks to get a drink with. They’re good to swap stories with, tall tales keeping them up late in the evening after all the patrons have gone to bed.

There’s a half-elven woman who plays a massive string instrument, practically taller than she is yet she hefts it around with the ease of long practice. Lita tells Molly stories about how she used to travel, how her old friends still stop by and visit her sometimes to see her shows. She has stories that surpass even his, tales about danger and treasure and crazy schemes that never should have worked, but even Molly can’t pick out a lie in her wild stories.

“I’m gonna miss you,” she tells him fondly, one night out of the blue.

Molly raises his eyebrows at her. “Now what makes you say that?”

She reaches out and taps the tip of his nose. “You’re not a type to stay,” she says. “You’re like my friends, just waiting for the next big thing to whisk you away.” She raises her wine glass, and it’s only polite for Molly to raise his own and tap it against her with a quiet _ching_. He can’t deny it, after all, and they both sip their drinks in contemplative quiet.

Then Lita sets her glass down and says, “Have I told you about this one time with a shapeshifter—”

* * *

 He opens his eyes, blinking hazily against the light streaming through the windows. His chest aches with the uneven rhythm of his heart. His hand lays stretched out in the cool sheets, seeking a warm body during the night.

He turns over, facing away from the empty spot. He curls up into a ball under the sheet and presses his hands against his sternum, eyes shut tight.

* * *

 He gets antsy in the city. He’s impatient when he’s bored, and he’s on edge when he’s lonely, and, as time continues to crawl by, he finds himself at loose ends more often than not. He refrains from taking on more interesting work from the Gentleman, but only because Cree is down there. Someday soon he knows he’ll give in to that, if only for any link to the Mighty Nein.

His days off are spent wandering around town, visiting all the free or cheap things he can find to entertain himself, and when he runs out of those he always comes back to see who’s free for a drink and a story.

He’s leaning up against the bar, waiting for Maura to come back with his beer, when suddenly a hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Molly almost comes around swinging but for the way his heart leaps in his chest. “You are supposed to be upstairs,” a voice mutters, a _familiar_ voice, “not bandying about in disguise when we are trying to—”

Molly spins toward him, feeling something light up inside him for the first time since he woke up on his tapestry, and Caleb’s eyes widen in surprise as he meets Molly’s gaze. The best feeling swoops through him, like a reckless leap from a high place to a safe landing, like a warm bed and a flash rainstorm, like coming _home_ to the one place he’s meant for. “ _Caleb,_ ” he breathes, and it’s been so long coming and it’s the best feeling in the world to throw his arms around Caleb Widogast again.

Caleb gasps in his ear, and then his arms wrap around Molly like he’ll never let go. Laughter bubbles up out of Molly’s throat, relieved and happier than he can stop. He can hardly breathe, and Caleb’s arms squeeze so tightly he thinks he might hear his ribs creak, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest. He kisses the side of Caleb’s face, wherever he can reach and he finds he doesn’t want to stop, either. His hair is soft and he smells just like Molly remembers, and one or both of them is shaking but it doesn’t matter. Caleb buries his face in Molly’s collar and Molly presses his lips fiercely against his temple, and he holds onto his soulmate for all he is worth in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone to read and kudos'd and commented on _my only sunshine_! This one wouldn't have happened without your encouragement. I'm really excited to still be working with this au, and there are a couple more pieces coming out at some point in the future! <3
> 
> There's also some [amazing art](https://midnighter13.tumblr.com/post/182016677286/artlyloser-a-commission-for-midnighter13-for) that goes with this series now!
> 
> Oh hey, and there's a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/a.mackenzie13/playlist/5f66B3Sr8CpfK7ubvHpZi8?si=UVhtaioTSx2YSJQhnN03ug) for this one, too!


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